你，马丁医生，从
早餐走向疯狂。八月末，
我加速穿过灭菌隧道
那里移动的死者仍在谈
论用他们的骨头抵抗治愈的
冲力。我是这个夏日旅馆的女王
或死亡的茎杆上一只大笑的

蜜蜂。我们站成
虚线等待他们开
门在晚餐冰冻的门口清点
我们。口令出
我们穿上微笑的罩衫走向
肉汤。我们排队咀嚼，我们盘子
的刮擦和啜泣像学校里

的粉笔。没有刀
来割破你的喉咙。我整
夜都在做鹿皮靴。起先我的手
一直空着，为它们曾经制作
的生命摊着。如今我学会收回
它们——每个愤怒的手指它要求
我修补另一个手指明天会破坏

的东西。当然，我爱你；
你躬屈在塑料的天空，
我们街区的上帝，所有狐狸的王。
杰克带着的破碎的王冠
是新的。你的第三只眼睛
在我们中运动并点亮我们在其中
睡觉或哭泣的分离的隔间。

我们是这里的大
孩子。在最好的病房里数我
长得最高。你的生意是人，
你视察疯人院，像我们网中
天启的眼。外面在大厅
里有喇叭叫你。你在扶助如雾中
的生命洪流般跌倒的

狐一样的孩子时扭伤了自己。
我们是自言自语的魔法，
嘈杂而孤独。我是我所有遗忘的罪的
女王。我还在迷失么？
我曾经美丽。如今我是我自己，
在沉默的架子上的这排
或那排的鹿皮靴上数数。

You, Doctor Martin, walk
from breakfast to madness. Late August,
I speed through the antiseptic tunnel
where the moving dead still talk
of pushing their bones against the thrust
of cure. And I am queen of this summer hotel
or the laughing bee on a stalk

of death. We stand in broken
lines and wait while they unlock
the doors and count us at the frozen gates
of dinner. The shibboleth is spoken
and we move to gravy in our smock
of smiles. We chew in rows, our plates
scratch and whine like chalk

in school. There are no knives
for cutting your throat. I make
moccasins all morning. At first my hands
kept empty, unraveled for the lives
they used to work. Now I learn to take
them back, each angry finger that demands
I mend what another will break

tomorrow. Of course, I love you;
you lean above the plastic sky,
god of our block, prince of all the foxes.
The breaking crowns are new
that Jack wore.
Your third eye
moves among us and lights the separate boxes
where we sleep or cry.

What large children we are
here. All over I grow most tall
in the best ward. Your business is people,
you call at the madhouse, an oracular
eye in our nest. Out in the hall
the intercom pages you. You twist in the pull
of the foxy children who fall

like floods of life in frost.
And we are magic talking to itself,
noisy and alone. I am queen of all my sins
forgotten. Am I still lost?
Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself,
counting this row and that row of moccasins
waiting on the silent shelf.